Trudy is the Nightbird

By Christine Ahern

Trudy Troutman is an unassuming manager of an art supply store, and a creator of unassuming, sweet greeting cards. When Teaman experiences writer's block, Trudy brings home a potion from a local herbalist. The potion accidentally gets into Trudy's system, bringing her a new, possibly dangerous, probably illegal artistic expression. An eccentric woman who dispenses potions? Whatever the cause, the result is an artistic soul set free. What could be better?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350957167

Christine Ahern

Christine Ahren lives happily and gratefully on the Central Coast of California. She is a writer, artist, and manager of an independent bookstores. She has written several novels, novellas, short stories, and children's stories.

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Cover of Trudy is the Nightbird by Christine Ahern

Trudy is the Nightbird

© 2024, Christine Ahern

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 979-8-35095-030-4

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter One

Trudy tapped the cobalt blue bottle, sprinkling the powder onto Teaman’s mashed potatoes. Just a dusting, she had been told, no more than a dusting. She pushed the cork into the bottle’s slender neck and slid it into the spice cabinet, behind the oregano. She looked at the plate. Oh shit, she whispered. Teaman’s mashed potatoes were sparkling. Teaman would notice sparkling potatoes. She pulled a fork out of the drawer and mushed frantically.

Trudy, you’re missing the movie. Want me to pause it? Do you need help?

No, no, I’m coming.

She scooped two spoonful’s of gravy onto the now subdued potatoes and carried the two plates out of the kitchen.

You missed the beginning, but I’ll fill you in.

Teaman took his plate from Trudy and placed it on the coffee table. His eyes grew wide as he gazed down at the oozing gravy. Wow, what did I do to deserve this?

What?

Double gravy helpings.

Trudy kissed the top of his head and sat down. Nothing, she said.

Okay, now you see that guy? Teaman pointed to the screen with his fork. He just picked up a package that he is supposed to deliver to his boss’s wife. He put a fork full of potatoes in his mouth, chewed and swallowed. The thing is though. . . he paused and looked over at Trudy. These are good. Did you do something different?

Trudy shrugged and shook her head.

Anyway, the thing is, I suspect the guy is really in love with his boss’s wife so doesn’t want to give her the package, in case it’s a great gift or something, but—

Honey, don’t tell me the whole story.

I’m not. You missed what I think were some important nuances. I don’t want you to get lost.

Teaman prided himself on being an expert plot decipherer. He could figure out the direction of any story, written, acted, or spoken within the first few pages, ten minutes, or few sentences. And, for years, he had acted as Trudy’s interpreter, for Trudy had the opposite inclination. Things seldom turned out the way Trudy guessed they might. Not the books she read, movies she watched, stories she heard. Life, she had discovered long ago, was too full of the nonsensical for her to be able to interpret its meanings or directions. Trudy had a very simple request of life; she wanted things to make sense and to be fair. That’s all.

Trudy and Teaman ate their dinner and watched the movie in their small living room, sitting on the couch, bending over their plates on the coffee table. Teaman put in his occasional direction and cautions to watch carefully. Trudy added her usual uh-huhs, I sees, okays, and silent nods. When the movie came to a mid-story lull, Teaman sat back, put his arms down at his sides and took in a long, all the way down to the belly breath and sighed. Trudy had heard this sigh many times before. She tilted her head to the side and frowned. The powder wasn’t working. Or maybe it would take a little longer than she expected, or maybe the change would be too subtle for her to notice.

Teddy jumped on the back of the couch and stuck his orange furry face in Teaman’s. He smelled him. Was he smelling the powder? Did he perceive a change? With Teddy she never knew what to expect. He was an odd little cat. Talkative and stubborn. Aloof yet needy. He had a funny round face and ears; he looked like a small bear. He crawled to sit between them then acted like his humans were the last thing he could possibly be concerned about.

Did you get any good work done today? Trudy asked.

I wrote five pages and kept about twelve words. Teaman leaned forward and ran his fingers through his thick hair. Trudy ran her hand across his neck and down his back.

They turned to the screen. The characters in the movie were now screaming and crying and hitting each other. Then the man grabbed the woman, and they began pulling the clothing off of each other’s shoulders. The tops of the woman’s breasts jiggled above her bra, her skin smooth and unblemished. Of course. She tilted her head back and exposed her neck to the man, whom she had apparently decided not to kill, but to get naked with instead. The man, of course, dove into her perfect neck and she lost all her resistance. Her arms fell to her sides; her back arched and she became a helpless female in the arms of the man who had just killed her husband. Trudy shook her head. It didn’t make sense.

A while later the rising music signaled the end of the movie and the credits rolled. Teaman sat still, staring at the names as they moved up the screen.

Hey, Babe, Trudy said.

He turned his head. Yeah?

Want some ice-cream?

No, not tonight. I think I might just go to bed.

You’re not going to write? You always write in the evening. You get your best work done in the evening.

I’m feeling pretty. . . spent.

Trudy shifted in her seat. The powder’s effects wouldn’t last long she had been told. Why don’t you go to your computer and sit in front of it and see if something comes to you.

Teaman smiled. Trudy noticed a sparkle between his two front teeth. Her breath caught for a moment; her eyes grew wide.

Okay. I guess it couldn’t hurt. But don’t expect much. I haven’t been doing my usual genius work lately.

But you are a genius, you know.

He leaned over her and kissed her gently on the lips. A genius for marrying you. He stood, lifted the plates off the table and carried them into the kitchen.

Don’t wait up for me, then. He walked back through the living room on his way to his study. And don’t worry. I’ll be fine.

She watched him pass. His old jeans bagged at his butt; his baggy sweater fell over his slightly protruding tummy. His bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor. He took another deep in the gut sigh, then turned and smiled at her before he headed down the hall. Trudy sat back and shook her head. The job of muse could be so difficult.

The next morning Trudy started her day the way she started most of her days. She took her morning walk through the neighborhood, saying good morning to the usual fellow strollers, then showered and downed her breakfast protein drink and two cups of high-test coffee. Before she left for her twenty-minute drive to the art supply store she managed in downtown Santana, she peaked in on Teaman. He was sitting at his computer, staring into space. He had informed her the night before that her suggestion to try to get some writing done had been for naught. He had spent hours playing solitaire and kicking a hacky sack around his office until his knees hurt and his eyes went blurry.